Improbable Truth
by SrslyNo
Summary: Fast forward fifteen years. House and Wilson are finally together, but something is about to break them apart. Slash. AU. Supernatural. Kinda nice for autumn and Halloween. Last chapter could be bumped up to M.
1. Chapter 1

_**This story is based on a dream I had two year ago, but had a hard time getting it down on "paper." Hope you enjoy.**_

_**My thanks to the most awesome beta ever, hwshipper.**_

* * *

.

Wilson sits near the exit as the bus rattles away from the curb. Leaning forward, he turns the scrap of paper in his hands and squints at the penciled instructions blurred from his fidgeting. Doesn't matter. He has the list of local and intra-city buses memorized.

This is his sixth transfer. With each successive bus, there are fewer passengers and more unrecognizable neighborhoods. When he clambers aboard the last one, the _#3 Special_, all the seats are at his disposal.

When he gives the transfer to the driver he makes a nervous joke, "Is this the Mexington Avenue bus?" The driver stifles a yawn. Either he has heard the same line a hundred times before or he is too young to get the Tracy and Hepburn reference. If House were with him, he would roll his eyes. _If House were with him_.

Wilson lets out a silent sigh and chooses a seat facing the center aisle, affording him a panoramic view of the shops across the street. He checks his watch. The bus ride has chewed up almost two precious hours that he could have spent at House's bedside. A nurse is on duty, but Wilson wants to be there. Slipping the paper into the breast pocket of his overcoat, Wilson plays with the wedding band on his finger, absently twirling it and picking out the textured border design with his fingertip. They never had a civil ceremony. House simply placed a gold band on his pillow after five years of living together. Wilson put it on, and nothing more had been said.

After three weeks of scouring jewelry shops and department stores in the Plainsboro area Wilson found an identical one. Anticipating House's pleasure, Wilson reciprocated with his own version of the ceremony, placing the ring and a rare Japanese porn video on the pillow. Wilson watched with amazement as House tucked the DVD under his arm, but swept the ring into his nightstand drawer.

"You need to be reminded who you belong to, but I don't," House said quietly.

Wilson never felt better about a rejected gift in his life.

Wilson shoves his hands into his pockets and turns his attention to the urban landscape sliding past the windows. Neon martini glasses and blinking "Open" signs streak by, glowing like tropical fish in a tank.

The bus farts to a stop and the doors spring open.

The driver mumbles, "End of the line. Everybody out."

Wilson stands up and scans the rows. Everybody consists of him. A quick examination of the neighborhood isn't reassuring. He can barely make out the soot stained shops. Gates, paint, and boards obscure windows. He suppresses a shudder. If he were driving through the area he wouldn't stop for a red light, let alone walk down the street. He steps off the bus and onto the gritty, damp pavement. The icy air stings his face and he buries his hands in his coat pockets, cursing his memory for forgetting his gloves. Before Wilson takes another step, the bus rumbles away in a cloud of noxious fumes.

Alone, except for the street lamp and the cone of light piercing the misty air, Wilson is reluctant to stray from his island into the shadows. Spotting in the distance the glint of golden globes shining above a storefront, he squares his shoulders and heads toward the landmark. The murky lighting claws at his nerves and the lack of traffic makes him claustrophobic. He can't hear his own footsteps.

He tamps down his panic, and he looks at his feet. Crushed autumn leaves. The papier mâché pulp deadens the sound of his tread. Almost at his goal, Wilson deeply inhales and holds his breath before striding across an alley, avoiding the sweet sour stench of stale urine and fresh human feces. He barely raises his head to check for the glint of a knife or the barrel of a gun. His lungs force him to gasp for fresh air, and relief floods him when he reaches the pawnshop. He peers up before walking onto the black and white honeycomb tile of the entry. He could have sworn from far away the spheres looked gold, but up close the metal is tarnished to black.

His shoes softly scuffling against the ceramic floor, Wilson ignores the display windows with their earthly treasures. A gilt arrow on the door points to a button. He presses it, but hears nothing. He counts to ten before pushing the buzzer again. There is a clattering noise and he's sure someone is standing behind him. He quickly glances over his shoulder, hoping to surprise whoever is there. The lurker is a sheet of newsprint tangoing in the wind, floating and scraping over the sidewalk. The dance ends dramatically when the paper comes to a halt and clings to the base of the window. Turning back toward the door, Wilson stifles a yelp as a pair of enormous eyes set in a gnarled face stares back at him.

"Doctor Wilson."

"Abraham Bertram?" Wilson asks, keeping his voice even, not betraying his desperation.

The door opens wider, and the old man steps aside for Wilson to enter. "I wasn't sure if you were coming."

Wilson follows Bertram, but motions an apology with his hands. "If this is a bad time—"

"For you more than me. Unfortunately, that makes it the right time for both of us," Bertram replies. "Let's go to the back." The words are soft, sympathetic, and wrapped in an Eastern European accent reminding Wilson of his grandfather.

The room swims in twilight, most of the illumination leaking from the doorway at the end of the room. The goods tilt and lean in disarray like tombstones in an abandoned cemetery. Wilson sticks to the old man as closely as he can; Bertram knows his way with practiced ease. As Wilson zigzags down the aisle, monuments melt into a mishmash of musical instruments, books, towering vases, and trunks. Trying to avoid tripping over a bicycle pump, his coat button snags onto a slinky tassel from a black silk shawl embroidered with a gaudy Chinese dragon.

Bertram is immediately at his side and leans in to examine the snarled threads. Wilson has a bird's eye view of a large bald spot, and reflexively runs his hand over the top of his own thinning head of hair.

Carefully untangling the strands, Bertram clucks his tongue and speaks to the garment as if it were a person. "Shame on you, Sally, you old girl, none of your flirtatious tricks. The doctor is taken." As he pats the fringe back in place, he winks and explains, "She just turned one hundred, you know, but she's still a flapper at heart."

He places a gentle hand on Wilson's shoulder and ushers him without further incident into the back room.

The contrast between the shop and the back room is as different as the interior of a dumpster and the glow of a theater marquee. This is the first sane haven Wilson has seen since he stepped onto the first bus. The office is much like his, done in oak with a simple ceiling globe spreading peach-tinged light into every corner. A large desk dominates with chairs flanking each side. Bertram sinks into the alpha chair and waves Wilson to the one opposite. Glass fronted bookcases cover all four walls. Books and gleaming tools occupy the shelves. Wilson deduces some of the devices are for measuring. Behind Bertram is an impressive array of various sized hourglasses filled with sand ranging in various Painted Desert hues. A selection of devices that defy explanation dot the room. House might know what they are, but House isn't here. He is at home in bed. But the point is moot. If House weren't dying, Wilson would not be sniffing around city armpits. Exhausted, he clasps his hands and stares at them. His goal seems ridiculous, seeking out Bertram for an impossible favor. He might as well ask Santa.

Wilson is at a loss for words. He looks at his watch again, and the ache in his gut worsens. How fast can he call a taxi and make it home before…

"The person you care about most in the world is dying," Abe purrs softly, but his tone is matter-of-fact.

Wilson manages an affirmative shake of the head. Remembering the jaundiced eyes, he begins to rise from his chair and whispers, "He only has hours. Look, I'm keeping you from your family, I should go home."

Abe jumps up, displaying unusual spryness for someone his age. "No, sit. We have time. Let me get you some tea. We'll talk." Abe disappears behind another door.

Water gushes from a tap and a kettle scrapes on a burner. A few minutes later Bertram holds out a tray with steaming cups of tea. Wilson takes one. A bowl of sugar cubes is placed on the desk. Returning to his chair, Bertram fits his reading glasses upon his nose, and silently sifts through papers.

The tea's aroma gives off an herbal scent. Wilson sips and feels his neck muscles relax like the loosening strings of a guitar.

Abe removes his glasses.

"Tell me about your loved one. How close are the two of you?"

"My partner, House." Wilson sighs under the penetrating stare. "We've been in a committed relationship for over a decade. Friends for much longer." After all this time Wilson is uncomfortable discussing his relationship. Not that he is embarrassed, but this is something that is private between the two of them. Only Cuddy knows, the cleaning lady, a few others.

"House is ten years older than me, sixty-seven. Cancer." House's decline had been slow, but Wilson still isn't ready to face the reality. The word catches in his throat even though he pronounces it daily in his work. He rubs his eyes to wipe away freshly forming tears. Something in the tea must be making him emotional.

Bertram nods his head in sympathy. "My brother told me you are a good man in need of a miracle. Normally my clientele come from a different stratum, but you helped my niece when I had already done all I could for her. I'm prepared to help your partner."

Wilson clutches at the threadbare lifeline while feeling a need to be honest. "There's very little time."

"Time is my specialty, doctor. That's why you're here. But I do need something from you. You must be willing to sacrifice a part of yourself." Bertram gets out of his chair and opens the door to the pawnshop. "If you aren't serious, you should leave now. As it is, you know too much."

.

.

_TBC_


	2. Chapter 2

Wilson ignores Bertram's invitation to leave and leans forward in his chair. "You can save House? How? This doesn't look like Sloan-Kettering."

"Obviously not. People come to my pawnshop after they have exhausted every possibility." Bertram's eyes glitter. "A pawnshop, Doctor Wilson. Think about it. Does it give you any ideas?"

Wilson casts about in his mind for a common denominator, but shrugs his shoulders. "You don't expect me to believe you're the devil and in the business of buying souls."

"No. I'm not Satan, nor do I front for him. His business is located down the alley and to the right." The corners of Abe's mouth tremble with amusement, but Wilson isn't sure whether or not he's joking. "Yet you are desperate enough to come here looking for answers that are best left to science fiction novels. There's no special name for what I do, Doctor Wilson. I'm talking about a trade, a simple redistribution of time."

"That's... impossible." Abe and his brother must be crackpots. Wilson glances at the face of his watch. He will make a polite excuse and execute his escape in T minus two minutes.

Abe patiently explains. "You see, everything is made of energy, it changes form but never gets used up. Like clouds, rainwater, and the sea. Time works the same way. You can pawn part of your lifetime and give it to someone else."

"Like cosmic family rollover minutes?" Wilson allows the sharp edge of cynicism to creep into his voice.

Undeterred, Bertram continues. "First I must give you an examination to determine how many years you have left, then we agree on terms, and you sign a contract. I can't tell you any more for now, but the experience is quick and virtually painless. House will be restored to health within a couple of hours."

House restoration. The conversation sounds more like an episode of New Yankee Workshop than a medical procedure, but Wilson's optimism soars into the stratosphere. "I'm fifty-seven, and in good health for my age. I eat right and exercise." He conveniently leaves out that his exercise consists of walking down from oncology to the cafeteria and back, and his healthy eating habits have progressively deteriorated as House's illness became worse. "My parents died in their eighties. So did my grandparents. I probably have twenty-five solid years to give him."

A tight smile, and a shake of Bertram's head crash-lands Wilson's high-flying hopes. "What? No?"

"You can't give House all your remaining time. Also, a premium must be paid to me. What's left is divided between the two of you. If your life expectancy is what you say it is, you will have another ten years instead of twenty-five. And then you have to factor in aging. You will physically age twenty-five years while House will become that much younger. He will look youthful enough to be your grandson. Do you understand the sacrifice you will be making?"

Wilson briefly considers the trade-off and weighs it against living without House. "It's still too good to be true. "

"In this digital age, what can I possibly offer you as proof?" Bertram asks. "A photo of me and my brother Jacob standing under a New Year's banner from five years ago looking twenty years younger? Sally, nineteen, dressed in her party clothes and shawl with a rose in her hand, and a picture with the same rose, but aged thirty years? You still wouldn't be convinced. If House means that much to you, give me two hours and I'll work the miracle you're looking for."

Bertram leans his elbows on his desk, and waves an arm around doing a credible impersonation of Larry King. "This is strictly my way of thanking you for saving my niece. Literally, a once-in-a-lifetime gift. Can _you_ do anymore for House?" Abe shrugs his shoulders. "Maybe you don't love him enough."

Wilson raises his hands to stop Bertram from continuing. "There are no medical solutions. We tried them all." Wilson says a silent prayer that nothing unexpected happens to House while he submits to Bertram's hocus-pocus. "Alright. You have two hours."

...

The examination resembles a new age massage, if it were practiced by Victorians. Wilson dresses in a faded hospital gown and reclines on an old-fashioned leather exam table. Bertram pushes a cart full of bottles and bric-a-brac into the room. Not one item pretends to be scientific.

Bertram slathers a cool rosemary-scented oil over Wilson's skin that delivers heat deep down into his muscle tissue. Stacks of bronze discs decorated with scrollwork dwindle as Bertram presses them onto Wilson's body. They run in a central line from his forehead down his torso, and then branch off to his shoulders, arms, and legs.

The process is relaxing, and Wilson closes his eyes, but returns to red alert when he hears, "This will sting a bit. You will experience a slight discomfort."

A needle digs into his abdomen. "Ow! What are you doing?"

"Don't tense. This is necessary. I must gauge the viability of your organs, blood, and circulation. You're somewhat resistant to the effects of the oil." He holds up a tiny opalescent pellet. "Open your mouth so I can place this under your tongue."

Wilson's mouth puckers at the salty, bitter taste. Almost instantly he is overcome with drowsiness. His body no longer touches the worn leather cushion. Two Chinese women tether him to the exam table with brilliantly colored silk thread and stitch a dragon upon his chest while talking non-stop in some dialect. He needs House to translate what they are saying…

"Wake up, Doctor Wilson. I'm finished."

The grogginess is hard to shake. Wilson blinks, and Bertram's hand squeezes his shoulder.

"You're going to feel a little light-headed. Take your time. When you are ready, put on your clothes and come back to my office. I'll give you the results."

...

Formulas and numbers fill a notepad as Bertram taps on a calculator. He writes a number on a fresh sheet of paper and pushes it across the desk to Wilson. The number is much lower than he expects. Wilson feels a cold ball form in his stomach.

"Five years? There must be some mistake."

"I'm sorry, James. An anomaly appeared. After my cut, you and House have five years apiece."

Wilson considers the news. "What's the anomaly?"

"I can't give you that kind of information."

"Not even as a professional courtesy?" Wilson asks with a winning smile.

Bertram shakes his head. "It's of no consequence if you take the deal. I know I'm throwing a lot at you at once, but we are working within a short timeframe." Bertram taps his pencil on the desk. "One more consideration, after the procedure you'll age twelve years and acquire the normal diseases that go along with sixty-nine. Nothing uncontrollable, I assure you; however, House will revert to fifty-five. How was his health at that age?"

"Good, except for his leg pain." Wilson feels like he's negotiating with a car salesman and losing. His resistance is wearing down. He wants the car with the luxury package. "Can something be done?"

Bertram scrawls on the same sheet and hands it back to him. A number is sandwiched between a dollar sign and an ominous string of zeros. Wilson shakes his head. "I can't do it. It's more than twice what I have in the bank."

"The best I can do is halve the pain if you sign your accounts over to me."

Wilson clearly remembers how tortured House was with his thigh twelve years ago. The pain never dipped below an eight, and he had returned to Vicodin. It was a bad stretch in their relationship. A four could be managed with non-narcotic pain relievers. It was a big step, but the loft was paid off, and if they only had five years to live, he and House could manage on House's investments. "Fine. Let's do it. Anything else?"

"Of course, this is all in confidence. You can't tell a living soul."

"What about House? He claims he doesn't have one."

From the sour expression on Bertram's face, his humor is judged lacking. "He does and you can't."

"What happens if I slip or talk in my sleep?"

"I advise you to sleep in separate rooms." Bertram sweeps all the papers into a pile, suggesting that the meeting is over.

"Wait. Seriously, what would happen?"

"Our repo man, Lyle, who specializes in slow and painful deaths, will hunt you and House down. Don't consider hiding, he has a 100% success rate." Bertram opens a side drawer. "Do you want to know more? I have a brochure you can read, but don't touch. The paper causes acid burns."

Wilson tugs at his shirt collar. "No, you answered my question."

"Are you in or out?"

" In."

Bound, blue-covered legal documents materialize from a different drawer. Bertram taps on the thick sheaf of papers. "All that I need is your binding consent."

Wilson sighs and pulls his pen out of his pocket. "Where's the dotted line ?" His heart sinks when Abe's head moves almost imperceptibly from side-to-side.

"A signature is a sign of faith in our materialistic world. Conversely, I need something of substance to seal the metaphysical component of the contract. Something dear to you." Bertram's faded blue eyes stare meaningfully at Wilson's left hand, but he's not eyeing the Mont Blanc.

Wilson checks his watch. An hour and a half has gone by, and he still has to manage to find his way home. The timepiece is expensive and means a lot to him—a gift from the oncology staff as head of his department for twenty years. He points to it.

Abe purses his lips, and drums his fingers.

Wilson straightens his left shirt cuff and seeks out his gold band. With one bounce, the ring alights on the contract. He watches it spin on its edge, creating a ghostly image of a sphere. It slows, wobbles, and stops.

* * *

An icy chill seeps into Wilson's bones and wakes him. He is seated on the bus bench across the street from his condo; nothing shines from the windows. He runs a hand across his face. Did he dream about the pawnshop?

He looks up again when a light show pulses on the loft's ceiling from the big screen. Because of the angle, he can't make out who is in the room, but the nurse never watches television.

Wilson attempts standing to get a better view, but falls back onto the bench, his knees and hips complaining about his abrupt decision. That's when he notices a cane leaning next to him. He wasn't dreaming. Bertram left a goodbye gift.

When he curls his fingers around the handle he sees his father's hand with swollen knuckles and ropey veins. The sight is startling, but fills him with shaky optimism that spurs him forward. Ignoring his body's protests, he levers up. Lacking spring in his step, he shuffles his feet and leans heavily on the cane as he crosses the street. By the time he's at the building's entry, his joints are more flexible, and he no longer needs to rely upon Bertram's prop.

Out of habit he checks the mail on his way to the elevator and stops in his tracks. The bank of polished mailboxes creates a warped but decent mirror. A frightful old man looks back at him. He touches his face as he records the features in the reflection—loose skin hanging from his neck, a softened jaw line, jowls, and wild white feathery eyebrows. His formerly ice-tipped temples have receded into a thin but solid snow bank. His fingers search the back of his head and confirms his earlier fear—there's a decent sized bald spot. Transfixed, he shakes his head at the image and steps away in order not to see his jowls continue to flap after he stops moving.

Stunned, he retreats from the lobby and back into the chilly night, ignoring the pain that clutches at his joints. He slowly paces outside of the building in order to think and keep warm. Eventually his legs grow heavy and his hips shout for mercy. He's dependent once more on the cane. Wilson remembers his car is parked around the block. He can sit and contemplate his next move while sheltering from the cold.

Deliberately averting his eyes from the rear view mirror as he climbs in, Wilson buries his head in his hands. Shock gives way to panic. Was that House walking around in the loft or had something gone horribly wrong? Is the nurse waiting for him to come home before calling the coroner? Wilson yanks out his phone and presses the loft number. If no one picks up, he'll risk going back to check. On the fourth ring he hears a voice.

"Wilson?"

It's House. Wilson's hand grasps the phone tighter. Last week House could not blow out a candle let alone speak. His voice sounds vibrant, but also demanding.

The full force of what Wilson has done slams into him like a head-on with an eighteen-wheeler. He might have gotten away with pleading innocence about House's recovery, but not with him looking like an albino turkey. And no amounts of Grecian Formula or the best Park Avenue plastic surgeon can hide his aged face. House will bludgeon him with questions to get to the truth. Unless he wants Lyle ripping the front door off its hinges and busting into their loft, he can't say anything.

He ends the call without so much as a whisper.

Hands shaking as if a robber is aiming a gun at him, Wilson fumbles with his car key, dropping it twice before fitting it into the ignition. The phone trills next to him and lights up, showing House's name. He turns off the ringer and tosses it on the seat. Foregoing his seatbelt, he peels away from the curb. The phone slides onto the floor and disappears.

Habit draws him to the hospital, but he can't risk being recognized. Cruising in ever widening circles, Wilson formulates a plan. He points the car toward the highway and follows the signs until he sees the exit to Newark airport.

.

.

_TBC_


	3. Chapter 3

After Wilson finds a space in the airport's long-term parking, he inventories the assets in his wallet. A thick wad of cash nearly bursts from the leather confines. There is more than he had at the beginning of his day, but not enough for a plane ticket. All his credit cards are gone. His driver's license photo shows his face and the signature is in his handwriting, but his name carries slightly more ethnic weight. Instead of James Wilson he is James Wolfson. His birth year has changed, and so has his residence, an apartment in Trenton. He rests his forehead on the steering wheel and considers what he should do.

A knock on the car window startles him. A taxi cab driver yells through the glass, "You're Wolfson? You need a lift to Trenton?"

Wilson shakes his head, and turns the key of the ignition to show that his car is fine, but the engine is comatose. He looks at his keychain. Everything is the same, except a brand new brass house key dangles from it. Assuming this is too elaborate a ruse for an ax killing, he cracks open his window. "Your name's not Lyle, is it?"

"Do I look like a Lyle, man? I'm Miguel. You called a cab or not?"

Wilson takes a deep breath before stepping out of his car.

...

The new key slides into the lock with ease. As Wilson opens the door, the cabbie runs up behind him. "Hey man, you forgot this." He pushes a bulging manila envelope into Wilson's hand, then disappears.

Strident fumes of disinfectant and ammonia with an undertow of mustiness assail his nostrils as he fumbles for the light switch. A ceiling light unashamedly illuminates the shabby interior of the furnished rental. Linoleum demarcates the kitchen from the living room. One look at the matted carpet and the room's contents, and Wilson would have preferred the whole place done in linoleum, and all the apartment's furnishings Saran Wrapped. The sofa cushions are a mountain range of hills and valleys from previous tenants' bodies. Wilson squints, hoping to create a more romantic vision, but no amount of soft focus can help. The only solution is closing his eyes. He lets out a cynical grunt. He likes brown, but the room is done up in the color of hamburger meat well past its prime.

A respectable bathroom is off the main room along with a sparsely furnished bedroom containing a dresser and a mattress. Brand new linens and a blanket modestly sit on a corner like a clinic patient perched on an exam table. The closet contains a surprise, a smattering of new shirts and slacks with price tags. The sizes are his.

He returns to the living room and drops onto the couch, opening the envelope. There are one month's supplies of blood pressure and cholesterol pills, and a bottle of Tramadol for arthritis flare-ups. He pulls out a small envelope with a license plate number written on it and finds a car key inside. There is a copy of his contract, and a booklet entitled, _You're Our Client for Life_. He flips through the pages. The heading on the first page grabs his attention, _WARNING! DO NOT PROCEED WITHOUT READING THIS PAGE FIRST! _Four items are listed below it.

Item number one deals with confidentiality, including a mild allusion to the collection department. Bertram familiarized him with that. He moves on to the next about maintaining his health—all the same things he tells his own patients. Taking his medication on time, eating healthily, and exercising. The third demands that clause thirty-six of the contract be read within the first twenty-four hours. The fourth indicates that penalties will incur if any of the first three are not followed. Another tsunami of panic overwhelms him and leaves a backwash of weariness. Wilson tosses the manual and packet onto the coffee table. Taking off his overcoat and using it as a blanket, he stretches out on the sofa and goes to sleep.

...

The refrigerator is stocked with a selection of fruits and vegetables. A bag of potatoes and cans of low sodium broth fill half a shelf in the pantry. Wilson lays low the first couple of days making do with what is on hand. He feels useless and hollow and scared. Much of his time is spent reading the manual and poring over the contract. He locates clause thirty-six. The import of it does not sink in at first, but by the end of the week he curses it.

Thirty-six is the suicide clause. Bluntly stated, nothing about it can be misconstrued. If Wilson commits suicide, Lyle will find and kill House the very same day. In more tortured legalese, a paragraph details what would happen if he fails in his attempt and survives. Bottom line: Lyle will make him sorry that he was ever born.

Borrowing a lesson from House, Wilson decides to become a guinea pig and test the penalty rule. He skips one of his blood pressure pills. A two-hour delay causes mild nausea that escalates every hour after that until he gives in and takes it. A second experiment, a call to the local pizzeria effectively shuts down any more of Wilson's research. One slice of double cheese with everything causes him to jackknife in wrenching pain. He spends the night draped over the toilet bowl.

Wilson gets the message. His five-year prison sentence is incommutable. Even his lethargy doesn't go undetected by the time squad. A new vial of antidepressants appears on his kitchen table.

His first excursion from his apartment is to the grocery store across the street. No one stares at him or points fingers. He happens to go on Tuesday, when a senior citizen's discount is offered. He blends right in with the rest of the pigment and follically challenged.

A bigger obstacle arrives in the mail—his first social security check, Wilson lets the envelope sit on the coffee table for a week. The manual explains what to do, but there is no advise about how to behave calmly as he flashes his altered ID at a teller. A dozen dress rehearsals in front of the bathroom mirror quells Wilson's shaking hands, and the corner of his mouth stops twitching. When he walks through the bank's doors, the transaction goes surprisingly well.

Everything Wilson does he practices first, but he is a fast learner. He discovers that his white hair and wrinkles pay off when anyone calls him by his new last name and he fails to respond. The quizzical look he had perfected to defend against House's snark comes in handy. Strangers pat him on the arm with a _poor old guy_ expression softening their eyes. Gradually, Wilson grows into his new old persona.

* * *

He's doing his time. With each week, the role of old fart becomes easier to play. Nearing the end of his third month, Wilson moves through his world almost as effortlessly as a fine-tooth comb slides through his thinning hair.

Not one to make waves, he nods at his neighbors, even the couple that wake him in the middle of the night shouting at each other either in hate or lust. He can't tell which, but no patrol car with rotating lights ever shows up. His goal is to be the quiet old man in apartment twelve. But quiet breeds boredom, and he misses House. Every day and every night he thinks of him, especially when he is in his bed. Wilson closes his eyes and imagines House next to him, the sag of the mattress, the sound of his snoring, his body heat, his touch. Wilson sleeps most nights on the couch.

There is an irony that is not lost on Wilson. House is very much alive to everyone but him. Wilson needs a distraction before he goes crazy. And he needs money. The government checks are insufficient, and no more money materializes in his wallet. The solution for both is a job. Wilson contemplates interviewing as a Walmart greeter when another opportunity presents itself in the guise of his landlady.

One of the keys on Wilson's key ring is for a storage unit. Originally belonging to Bonnie before they were married, and in her maiden name, Wilson had paid the rent in annual installments, but never changed the name on the account. He stores the wreckage from his marriages to Bonnie and Julie, and later, his parents' belongings. Space 521 is right out of Citizen Kane. Anything can be found, including his childhood sled, and a certain tilt-top table.

After returning from the unit, his landlady Darlene, a middle-aged woman with unnaturally dark hair, stops him as he wrestles the table from his car.

"What a beautiful piece, Mr. Wolfson. Is it solid cherry?"

"I don't know. It was my mother's. Thought I'd use it to eat dinner while watching football."

She places one hand on her hip. "You men! Put hot plates on this wonderful finish? You mustn't." She wags a finger flirtatiously. "That's furniture abuse, Mr. Wolfson. How much do you want for it?"

"What?" Wilson asks, in a clumsy effort to stall for time as he mulls over her offer.

She must think he's hard of hearing because Darlene raises her voice. "How about you give me the table and I knock fifty dollars off next month's rent?"

"How about fifty dollars cash?" and Wilson throws in for free his Walmart greeter's smile that he's been practicing. Maybe he will hold off submitting his application for a few days.

A few days extend into weeks. Wilson never goes to Walmart unless he's shopping for bargains. House would be shocked.

He's an entrepreneur and Darlene is his number one fan. Before he realizes what has happened he is running a thriving business out of his home. Many items never make it past the front door. Women greet him in the parking lot wanting first pick from what he brought from storage. He keeps his trunk packed with bags of tchotchkes, and he's a celebrity at the senior center.

Wilson's days are busy. When he stands in line at the bank a finance counselor comes over with a tray of cookies and talks diversification. Wilson waves away both offers. He splurges on an extra set of sheets and towels, and goes wild in the men's department, selecting a striped tie that's guaranteed washable.

His nights remain achingly empty. Often restless after dinner, he spends the evening driving through seedy neighborhoods of nearby towns where he once searched for Danny, slowing to a crawl whenever he passes a pawnshop. None look like Bertram's. His last stop before turning back to Trenton is his old neighborhood. He hopes to get a glimpse of House.

One night, circling the block isn't enough. He parks across the street from his former home and waits. His attention is distracted by a noisy group of people. He had forgotten that it was Saturday night, and by the eager laughter a small group of passersby are going to a party. They disappear into the apartment building that he is parked in front of. When another flock of partygoers climbs up the steps to the entry door, Wilson acts on impulse and gets out of his car. He tags behind the group and walks into the lobby when they get buzzed in. Trying to lose the crowd, he hovers at the mailbox and pantomimes a search for a mailbox key until he is alone. When the elevator returns, he gets in and presses the button to the 4th floor, the same as his loft.

Pacing the hall, he carefully chooses a door and knocks. His grandfatherly smile is snugly in place as he hears locks snap open, and a woman peeks through the small space left from the remaining door chain.

"Excuse me, but I used to live here with my dear wife."

Like any person with four locks on their door, hard lines form around the woman's mouth. She's not buying his story. "Mister, you're not wearing a wedding ring."

He touches his naked finger and tears fill his eyes. "I lost it."

The three words affect the woman better than anything he could have planned. The chain is removed and the woman apologizes for the mess. Her child is sick.

Wilson can't resist asking about symptoms and fever. The questions come naturally to him, but he notices a crease forming between the woman's eyebrows. He is sure she is thinking pedophile.

"Forgive me for asking, but I recently retired from medicine. Old habits…" He lets the sentence trail away with a half-smile and is rewarded when the woman's facial muscles relax. By the time they walk down the hall to the bedrooms she is asking him his opinion on different brands of cough syrup.

The large front bedroom has a perfect view of the loft's great room. Involuntarily, Wilson gasps at the sight. House has got to be home. He's embarrassed by his reaction, but the woman squeezes his shoulder, backs out of the room, and closes the door, giving him some privacy. She must have thought the bedroom brought back memories of him and his "wife."

He shuts off the lights and moves closer to the window, willing House to come into the great room. Wilson sees nothing at first, but a silhouette appears, framed in the hallway to the kitchen. The figure transforms into House as he hitches into the kitchen without his cane and takes a bottle of beer from the fridge. Wilson holds his breath as he watches House twist off the cap and lifts it to his mouth. He moves to the couch. If House sits, Wilson will lose sight of him. Wilson implores under his breath, "Don't." With his nose almost touching the glass, he squints to make out House's features. Somewhere a time machine is running backward. House looks young and delicious. Wilson is sure his cheeks flame at the physical stirrings within him.

At the sofa, House bends down.

"No, please don't."

And places the beer on the coffee table. He walks toward the windows.

Wilson is mesmerized.

House stands in front of the window exactly opposite to Wilson's. He places his hands on the sash, and stares directly into Wilson's eyes.

Wilson stiffens, but controls his panic. House can't possibly see him in the darkened room. He carefully retreats into the deepest velvet shadow until his back bumps against the wall. There is no way House could see him, absolutely no way.

House shakes his head slowly as if disappointed, and then points a finger straight toward Wilson.

.

.

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

House's accusing finger is all Wilson can think about. The experience is so intense, Wilson can't rightly recall how he got back to his apartment.

How could House have seen him? More astonishingly, how did House recognize him? His hands shake as he throws his belongings into a cardboard box, his instinct pushing him to take flight.

If House catches up with him and starts asking questions, they are dead men. This is the one scenario he never expected. Wilson might as well be holding a loaded gun, because if he spills what he knows, he will be responsible for murdering House.

Wilson jumps at every scraping footstep he hears outside his window. He sits down on the bed as his mind reels, leaving him lightheaded at the possibility of discovery. He fights against the tight constriction of his chest and a queasy sensation in his stomach. Deep breaths slowly calm him, but when he stands up, the dizziness returns. He drops back on the bed, upsetting his box of clothes as it tumbles to the floor. He lays his head on the pillow and watches the room spin. Rubbing his chest and shoulder, he smiles up at the ceiling. A heart attack would be good right about now.

...

Sharp pains, like shards of ice stabbing into his hips, knees, and ankles, prod Wilson awake. His eyes open upon a cool gray morning. The bedroom is an ice cave. Tilting his head slightly, he makes out the hands on his alarm clock. They are stuck on 1:20. The power must have gone out in the middle of the night.

Groggy, he tries to ignore his aching joints and burrows under the blanket. The image of House at the window swims into his vision and Wilson is instantly awake. Having lost the opportunity of a quick getaway, Wilson doesn't waste another minute, and utters a series of stubby grunts as he sits up. The weather, the power outage, and his body conspire against him. He can hardly move. Gripping the cane he leaves near the bed, he shuffles toward the kitchen to get his pills. By the time he reaches his goal, he is trembling. He leans against the counter until the dull burning sensation in his back recedes before he tackles the Tramadol. He shakes the bottle, almost a full month's supply rattles back. As he pries off the cap, a fleeting firefly of a thought buzzes in his ear, and he calculates how many pills would permanently relax him into the hereafter. "Damn it," bursts from his mouth when the lid comes off unexpectedly, and pills bounce off every slick surface, scattering over the floor. There is no way he can reach down and pick them up. If he could, he would never get up.

He checks the bottle. Two white ovals are at the bottom. Foregoing the effort of pulling out a glass from the cupboard, Wilson lifts the vial to his lips, tosses the two pills on his tongue, and dry swallows.

He makes a stop at the bathroom before collapsing onto the bed, and waits for the tide of pain to subside. As soon as he feels better he vows to forget about packing and hit the road in the same suit he wore when he got here. When he is far away he can stop at an ATM and get cash; buy whatever he needs.

A half hour goes by, then an hour. The pills should be working but Wilson is biting his lip. He almost draws blood when he hears a knock on the door, and prays it isn't House. The doorbell rings once. Wilson relaxes. House would never be that polite. Despite his discomfort he drifts asleep.

Sharp hammering on the door rouses him. Wilson rubs his hand over his face in confusion about what to do, but there is no real choice. His body is uncooperative and stiff. He can't get off the bed.

A key rattles in the front door…

"Mr. Wolfson? Mr. Wolfson, are you all right?" Darlene calls out.

Wilson clutches his blanket to his chest, but doesn't answer, willing her away.

She appears in the doorway. "James! There you are. I knocked on your door earlier to tell you that I had a client for that ivory necklace of your mother's, but you didn't answer. When I returned from the market I noticed your car was here and I became concerned." Her cheeks tinge pink. "I worry about all my seniors when the nights get cold, especially when the power goes out."

"I'm fine, Darlene."

"You don't look fine to me, honey. You're looking pale."

Wilson gives in. "My arthritis is acting up. Nothing serious."

She sweeps up the bundle of wrinkled clothes on the floor and picks through them, folding each garment. There's a shrewd glint in her landlady's eye. "Kind of early to be packing up sweater vests for spring, isn't it?"

"I was going to the dry cleaners, and uh," inspiration strikes him. He clears his throat. "I felt dizzy. Have a sore throat. I'm probably coming down with the flu. You should leave before I give it to you."

"Sweetie, I never get sick." She touches his forehead. "You may have a fever. I'll whip up something for you to drink that will do wonders."

"Don't go to any trouble-" Wilson tries to elbow up from the bed, but pain radiates through his arms and shoulders. He falls back into the pillow.

"You poor dear." She clucks her tongue as her eyes dart to the alarm clock. "Good! The power went back on. I'll make you my special tea. I want you to be well enough to meet with Rhonda tomorrow so you can show her that lovely necklace. I'll be right back."

...

"I have your word you'll see Rhonda?"

Wilson sips the hot tea in his mug, and nods. Something about the herbal blend smells and tastes familiar, but he can't pin it down. At last, the gnawing fire in his bones is fading and euphoria is taking over. If he can get out of bed and walk upright tomorrow, he feels honor bound to do Darlene a favor. And extra cash wouldn't hurt. Rhonda will be his last stop before leaving Trenton.

Darlene's cool fingers stroke his forehead and trail down his cheek, leaving the scent of rosemary in their wake. She coos, "All you need is rest. Relax." As an afterthought she adds, "My, you were a handsome man."

Wilson's eyelids feel heavy, but his eyes flutter open at the last remark. His thoughts leap to Bertram. Could Darlene be part of the time squad? He struggles to speak. "Do you know about House? If he comes…"

"Hush. Go to sleep."

Wilson makes another attempt, "House…"

Darlene's voice comes from far away. "Don't worry. I know what to do."

* * *

"There isn't another strand of ivory this good on the whole eastern seaboard." Wilson can't believe how the slick words trip off his tongue. He's getting too good at this.

He and Rhonda are sitting in front of an Italian deli in a strip center. The atmosphere is composed of plastic chairs and tables done in red, green, and white, car exhaust, and a freshly striped parking lot. The day is crisp and cold. Wilson sees his words turn into misty clouds as he speaks in a confidential tone. Anyone watching would think they're a happily married couple.

He pulls up the collar on his overcoat to keep warm, but he's feeling remarkably well. He can't remember much about yesterday except Darlene and his promise to her.

"Very pretty," Rhonda twitters, and lets out a big buxom sigh. "But it's expensive."

"Beads this size go for four times this amount on eBay." Wilson glibly lies and waits for her reaction. Unless the woman hands the beads back to him, he won't drop the price.

"One hundred dollars is a little steep on my fixed income." She stuffs the necklace into the plastic ziplock bag, but does not let go of it.

"Hasn't anybody ever told you, you can't play coy while wearing six diamond rings stuffed on your chubby fingers? Pay the loser a hundred dollars and get your blood pressure checked."

Wilson covers his mouth. Did he say that out loud? Is he channeling House? A shadow covers the white tabletop. Wilson sees a pair of jeans and the edge of a t-shirt. He raises his head. Holding back a hiccup of fear, he hides the recognition from his face.

"Why if it isn't Doctor Wilson, oncologist and huckster." House says with way too much glee.

An eight-point temblor rocks through Wilson. He wants to flee _and_ hug House. The two actions cancel each other out, and he stays seated.

"I don't know who you're talking about." Wilson snatches the beads from the woman and rises. "My name is Wolfson." He lowers his head and is about to step off the curb when he feels a firm hand grab his arm.

"The masquerade is over, Wilson. Okay, wrong choice of words, you can't take off your mask, but all the same, you're busted."

"Let go of me." Wilson tries shaking off House's hand. Sweat gathers on his upper lip.

"No way." House smiles smugly. He is clearly enjoying himself.

The woman is still there, observing. Wilson is tempted to ask her to call the police. Let House try to talk his way out of a harassment charge without sounding like a madman. But that would be risky for him too. Wilson pulls out his wallet and flips it open, flashing his driver's license. "Check my ID. My name is Wolfson. Does anything match this Wilson you're talking about?"

House glances at it, drops his arm, and his grin grows wider. "That Bertram is a genius."

"What? How do you know about Bertram?" Wilson looks at his license. It has changed. The card shows a current picture, but his real name and loft address shine through the laminated surface. He spreads his arms. "How can this be?"

Wilson feels a timid tap on his shoulder. "Don't mean to interrupt the two of you. You look like you're in the middle of something important." Rhonda stuffs two one hundred dollar bills into his wallet and extracts the bag of beads from his hand. "I'll be going." A wave of her fingers and she wiggles away.

Wilson sinks into the chair. "I don't understand."

House sits next to him and slides a warm hand over his. "You don't understand? How do you think I felt waking up pain free, looking a decade younger, and you not hovering over me?"

Wilson decides to play out his hand with dignity. "You're well? Cancer free?"

"Absolutely. Even the leg pain is manageable. Just a twinge now and again."

"Good." Wilson nods and mulls over the best way to approach House about Bertram.

"If this was a room, there'd be an elephant in it. Spit it out, Wilson."

"Bertram. When did you find out?"

"You want me to tell you everything? Not hold anything back?"

"If time is about to run amuck, yeah, now would be good."

"And what fun would that be?" House stands up. "Let's go home, Wilson. I might let you wrestle the information out of me. You do remember how to wrestle, don't you?"

Wilson cannot keep it together any longer. His knees pop as he rises. He's feeling very old. "Stop teasing me, House. Look at me. Take a good long look, and tell me what you see."

"Can't we do this at home, dad?" House says in his mock-whining voice.

"No." Wilson wants to die now. "Been good seeing you, sonny." He walks away.

"Come back here! Wilson, don't be an idiot," House shouts after him. "Wilson! At least don't leave without your ring."

That stops him dead in his tracks. Wilson turns around. "What ring?"

House puts out his hand.

Wilson steps closer to see what House is holding. It is his wedding band. "How did you get it back from Bertram?" He slips it on his ring finger, but the band catches on his swollen knuckle.

House says something under his breath.

"What's that?" Wilson asks.

House looks annoyed. "That was my final attempt at seduction." He leans forward and shouts. "I thought if I rescued you from that frumpy old broad you would be grateful. Jesus, I should have bought you hearing aids instead of a ring."

The words sting, but Wilson can't help but smile. House is the master of the backhanded endearment. "You bought me a new ring?"

"Not exactly. It's the ring you purchased for me, but I had it engraved. Read what's inside."

Wilson squints at the inscription, but can't make out the words. He holds it at arm's length…

"Here, try mine." House gives him his reading glasses.

Wilson slips them on. The letters come into focus. _You get my seat on the lifeboat_. Wilson tries to speak, but suddenly there is a catch in his throat and he tries to clear it.

"That's forever, Wilson. Doesn't matter whose body hurts or who has the most wrinkles. Got it?"

A little breathless, Wilson bumps shoulders with House before managing to say, "Can we stop at the jeweler's on the way home and get it sized?"

.

.

**_TBC_**

_Not finished yet! Anyone curious about Lyle? o_O_


	5. Chapter 5

Returning to House feels like a homecoming, but after a short, rambunctious honeymoon period, Wilson realizes the loft is no longer the safe haven it once was.

After Wilson insists on taking House's vitals, House returns the favor. Wilson keeps a straight face when House finishes with the basics, and initiates various endurance tests that take place in the bedroom, bathroom, great room, and kitchen countertop. Surprised and slightly embarrassed by his physical prowess, Wilson chalks up his own sex drive to the sight of a healthier and younger looking House. What House sees in him is harder to understand.

Under the covers and in the dark, he swears he's young again. Nothing pops or flaps, and his equipment is primed for action. Every night is, _The Best Hits of House and Wilson_.

Sometimes Wilson catches House looking at him strangely, as if he is seeing him for the first time. While they dry off after a morning shower, House presses his hand over the faded scar on Wilson's stomach and gets an odd expression.

"What are you thinking?" Wilson dares to ask.

House tenderly kisses his neck. "You donated part of your liver to Tucker, but sacrificed most of your golden years to me. I know we have less than five years to live. Are you sorry you did it?"

"No. I'd do it again. Does it bother you that you're stuck with an old man for a lover?"

House forces him to look in the mirror. "You're a demon in bed, Wilson; our sex never grows old. Have you seen yourself lately? I'd take you over George Clooney any day."

The man in the mirror is white-haired, but stately, perhaps Wilson is willing to go so far as to say distinguished. No hound dog jowls, and the wrinkles impart character to his once boyish face. Whether Bertram has performed another transformation, or Wilson is seeing himself through House's eyes, doesn't matter. He likes what he sees and is ready to share his newly found confidence by wrapping his arms around House, and hugging him so their hips grind together.

…

As much as Wilson is enjoying the sexual feast after his celibate famine, he is aware that House is holding back information, distracting him with sex whenever Wilson broaches the topic of Bertram. And House is up to something. Ending phone calls abruptly when Wilson walks into the room. One morning he wakes to an empty bed and hears House and the voice of a stranger coming from the kitchen, but he can't make out the words because of banging cabinet doors and heavy thumps. Grabbing his robe, he goes and checks. The great room is in disarray. Cardboard boxes are strewn over the floor. Two men walk past him carrying out one of his couches. He opens his mouth to object, but House steers him back to the bedroom.

"Pack our bags Wilson, we're going on a road trip."

"What?"

"I put the condo on the market and our furniture is going into storage. We're making a new start where no one will know us. Moving to a Sunbelt state that will treat your arthritis kindly. Because my libido doesn't hibernate in the winter, I expect you to bust moves all year long. "

Wilson is incredulous. "You don't mind leaving New Jersey?"

"It's better than pretending to be my own nephew. How about you? Aren't you tired of playing Jimmy's weird cousin Bill?"

House is right, holing up in their apartment day and night like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid sucks. Fondling tomatoes at the supermarket instead of ordering groceries online would be a welcome change. But Wilson recognizes a bargaining chip when he sees one. He plants his hands on his hips. "We're not going unless you explain how you found me."

House gives his butt a playful smack. "In a cabbage patch. Go get ready, and I'll tell you on the road."

…

Exhausted from a full day of driving, Wilson is too tired to take off his underwear as he slides between the sheets. He waits patiently while he listens to the romantic stylings of House brushing his teeth and spitting into the bathroom sink. House has evaded his questions all day, but Wilson is prepared to withhold sex until he gets answers.

A streak of lightening brightens the closed drapes, and a clap of thunder closely follows. The weatherman on the car radio had forecasted clear skies. Wilson questions the less than perfect science of meteorology when another jagged sword of light flashes outside the window and a sonic boom rocks the shade on the lamp that's bolted to the dresser.

The door explodes open, and Wilson is on his feet, but he doesn't remember getting out of bed. House limps out of the bathroom holding his toothbrush.

A helmeted man, the size of a sequoia, dominates the room. Garbed in black leather and chain mail, steam rises from beneath his collar as he takes off his helmet, revealing long, iron gray hair and a fierce warrior's face. Blue flames flicker from under his hooded eyes. A hawk nose signals a right turn at the tip. A scar runs from his scalp down to his jaw, and his mouth is a distorted sneer that exposes one lengthy canine.

A movement and whipping sound distracts Wilson from the face. He spots something swishing under the long-coat, a reptilian tail. That's when he notices gelatinous ooze dripping from the man's sleeves and pants. The goo hisses as it strikes the carpet, leaving scorch marks and an acrid odor.

"I've come to collect." The man speaks as he inhales. His voice is a cross between a string bass and a gravel truck.

Wilson's knees turn to sand and he sinks back onto the bed. Lyle, the repo man. "I-I-I don't understand. I followed the contract to the letter."

"Sally," Lyle says, as if that explains everything.

"Got her right here, Lyle, my pal," House answers, and searches through a suitcase. When House turns around he's holding a black shawl with a slinky, gold fringe, the one that caught on Wilson's button at the pawnshop.

Wilson points at House, and says disbelievingly, "You stole the shawl?"

"Sally belongs to me," Lyle snarls as he fastens his eyes upon Wilson.

House shoots a meaningful glance in his direction. "Shut up, Wilson. It's not what you think. And slowly drop your finger to your side. Make no sudden moves." His attention shifts back to Lyle. "You want paper or plastic?"

Lyle eyes his slimy hand and wipes it on the wall. "Plastic."

House dumps a pair of Wilson's leather shoes out of a plastic pouch, tucks Sally into it, and holds it out to Lyle.

A melodic giggle emanates from the bag as Lyle grabs it. "Thanks, House." He backs out the room, facing them the whole time. An icy wind howls through the room, and the door slams shut.

The adrenaline rush leaves Wilson trembling. "My God House! What was that?"

"The dramatic exit is on account of Lyle's tail. He's ashamed of it."

"I'm not interested in the tail. What about Sally? Er… the shawl. What did you get into?"

House shrugs. "Nothing."

"Nothing doesn't burn holes in carpets. I had no idea you got in so deep with Bertram. I'm not waiting a minute longer. Tell me what happened."

House stretches out on his side of the bed. "I found Bertram's shop, but the place was locked tight and no lights were on. I was about to leave when I heard a noise in the alley. Did you know Lyle has the world's most bitchin' motorcycle?" He pats the empty side of the mattress, motioning for Wilson to join him.

Wilson complies. "Of course, you were fascinated with the bike."

"Don't discount the ooze and tail. If only there was an MRI large enough to hold him."

"Unlike most people who would run the hell away, you had to learn more."

"I was curious and struck up a conversation. Yada yada. I offered to do him a favor. End of story."

"Whoa! Not so fast." Used to House's shorthand, Wilson pieces the sparse information together. "You struck a deal. He introduced you to Bertram, and you stole the shawl. What's up with that? Will Bertram pay back the favor by turning us into happy meals for flesh eating bacteria?"

"Wilson, don't panic." House's places a reassuring hand on Wilson's chest and lets it glide lower as he talks. "Lyle likes me, and a friend of Lyle's is a friend of Bertram's."

"Then why didn't Lyle get Sally?"

"Hello? Ooze? Lyle's not allowed in the shop."

"Why couldn't Bertram give it to him?"

"Some catch 22. All transactions must take place on the premises. Where Lyle can't go. He gave me his ticket, then hightailed off to a job. I got in to see Bertram. Seriously, a day in the clinic is more exciting. Does that satisfy you?"

House's hand is very satisfying, but Wilson is on a mission and he gasps out, "Far from it. How did you find the shop? What did Bertram tell you?"

House reaches for the corner of the blanket and pulls it over them. "A long road trip deserves a long story. More tomorrow, but let's not waste the rest of the night."

**

* * *

**

"Oh, give me a home where the buffalo roam…"

"House, can you please stop singing that song?"

"We had a deal. The driver gets to choose the song whenever we cross a state line."

"New, as in, a new state line. Not the same one we crossed ten minutes ago."

"And whose prostate's fault is that? I offered to massage yours this morning."

"Can we drop the geriatric jokes? I thought we got past those."

"Not until you throw away our AARP cards, my silver fox."

"They could come in handy, but I will toss them if you finish answering my questions about Bertram."

House rolls his eyes. "You get three questions. Make them good."

"How did you find out about him?"

House thumps the Volvo's steering wheel. "You abandoned your baby at the airport parking lot. For your information, 'long-term' does not mean until hell freezes over. After sixty days I received a letter that it was going to be towed. I found your cell phone and directions to the pawnshop."

"Damn." Wilson remembers the phone sliding out of sight. In his haste he forgot to retrieve it. Reflexively he touches the breast pocket of his jacket. "I must have dropped the paper."

"With your Freudian slip and my first class detective work, I located a patient by the name of Bertram. From there it was a hop, skip, jump, and seven bus transfers to the doorstep of one Abraham Bertram, Time Wizard."

"Where you encountered Lyle. Bertram wasn't furious?"

"Just the opposite. He was pleased. Seems you were in breach of contract almost from the beginning."

"Untrue! I followed each of the one hundred and forty-four clauses by heart."

"Of the contract he modified after he messed up. He was convinced he understood your intentions. While you had that spa treatment that passes for an examination, you rambled about how you couldn't live without me. Then you sealed the deal with your, 'Precious,' the ring I gave you. Returning to the loft was a fait accompli in Bertram's book. He dropped you off at the park bench outside our building, expecting you to go in." House risks taking his eyes off the road and looks at Wilson for a heartbeat. "But he didn't know who he was dealing with. James Wilson, unpredictable mutant. The man born without the boredom causing gene."

Wilson answers calmly, "I walked into the building and saw my reflection." He leaves out the wild turkey part. "Tell me honestly, you weren't going to browbeat me into explaining what happened? The information was as deadly as a lethal injection of morphine."

"Not in the original contract," House replies. "Only you and Bertram would have known what happened to you. To me and everyone else, everything would have looked the same. I wouldn't remember aging or having cancer.

"But you ran off, and Bertram felt he was responsible for reading you wrong. He altered the contract the way he changes driver's licenses. It fit the new reality. You didn't get dinged or zinged, but he made your life miserable, holding you captive in New Jersey, hoping you would come to your senses and beg him to go home."

"Home." Wilson presses his palms to his eyes as he recalls his physical woes while living in his jail cell apartment. "I thought I was doing the right thing."

"Because you're a natural born Eagle Scout. But I'm not. I showed up at Bertram's armed with information from Lyle, and step-by-step directions on how to find his shop. One click of my mouse, and his business would have gone global."

"House, you wouldn't."

"If that's what it would have taken to find you, I would, but in the end it wasn't necessary. Like I said, Bertram was glad to see me. He wanted us to reunite. The underground name for his shop is, 'Ye Olde Love Connection.'"

"Wait." Wilson rubs his neck. "I'm not buying that you bought Bertram's story."

"I didn't. Not at first. Not with anything to back up his story except a fancy hourglass collection. Bertram told me to wait for a sign, and that I'd get a phone call with your location."

"The sign was?"

"Fourth question, Wilson. You're over the limit."

"Come on, House. Don't leave it there. I promise this is the last I'll ask about Bertram today."

House presses his foot on the accelerator and passes two cars before getting back in his lane. Wilson figures House isn't going to answer and decides to turn on the radio.

As he is about to push the button, House speaks.

"I saw you watching me from across the street."

"But…"

"No buts. Your white hair didn't fool me. I recognized you. You disappeared before I could get downstairs. Two days later I got a call to drive out to the shopping center."

House's story dovetails with his own, but it sounds preposterous, even to Wilson.

"And you're good with what happened? Mister I-Want-Empirical-Proof."

"When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth." House answers solemnly.

"You're quoting, Sherlock Holmes?"

House takes one hand off the steering wheel and wraps it around Wilson's, rubbing his thumb along the band. "I'm willing to accept one, and only one, improbable truth if you're part of the package."

Wilson can't think of anything to say. He squeezes House's hand.

They speed down the highway in silence until House asks casually, "Is there anything in the paperwork explaining how we die?"

Wilson considers sharing clause 143, but holds his tongue. He should have at least one secret. "Nothing. But if it's the same to you, I'd rather not do a Thelma and Louise."

House raises an eyebrow. "Be more exciting than face planting into a platter of fries at an all-night coffee shop."

Easing House over to a safer subject, Wilson asks, "So what about Lyle and the shawl? Does he have a thing for Sally or is he into crossdressing?"

"No more questions today, Wilson."

"Why not? Lyle's personal life is an entirely different subject."

House doesn't take his eyes off the road when he answers. "Because we have tomorrow. Lots of tomorrows."

Wilson removes his hand from House's and locates his AARP membership cards. He waves them to get House's attention, tears them up, and in a bold move, rolls down the window, littering the highway with scraps of paper. Settling back into his car seat, he closes his eyes and basks in the heat of the afternoon sun. This is the best ride of his life.

.

_~fin~_


End file.
